BRENDA CULLERTON has a tiny tattoo of an open book on her left ankle. She blogs instead of jogs, shops occasionally, reads compulsively, and is no longer wise beyond her years. She lives and works in New York City. She also writes books:
The Craigslist Murders
Posts I Like
Feeling photo shoot fresh
Think I’ll call the paparazzi on myself….
Well… First of all, this is the fucking mountain I have to climb (and probably repel down) just to get to the freakin venue. EVERYDAY! Second, I just checked my sales report. 560 total tickets available and not ONE sold! Which should make for one hell of an opening night!  

Feeling photo shoot fresh

Think I’ll call the paparazzi on myself….

Well… First of all, this is the fucking mountain I have to climb (and probably repel down) just to get to the freakin venue. EVERYDAY! Second, I just checked my sales report. 560 total tickets available and not ONE sold! Which should make for one hell of an opening night!  

Snowpiercer? The Orient Express meets the L train

Richard Linklater’s Boyhood? Growing up with no sense of humor

Thank you, thank you, to the great Hermione Hoby @ The Guardian UK for this. It’s my first TWEET!

Thank you, TNC, for a great interview. Hashtag, hashtag, whatever!

LAST CHANCE! LAST NYC SHOW! Saturday July 19th @ 4: 30

"Wildly witty and gritty." says the Irish Echo.

And if they had called me from The Albanian Echo, I would have happily talked all about being a toddler in Tirana, too! 

MAKE SOME NOISE! It’s JayZ&Me&TheNewYork Times! 

Floor by Jackson Pollack
When it rained out at the beach last week, we visited Jackson Pollack’s house/studio. The grandmaster of abstract action painting was worth $700 when he died in a car crash in 1956. And all I could think of as I walked across the splattered wooden ‘canvas’ was: OMG! Shouldn’t I be tiptoeing? What if it was stolen?  Cut up? Sold? How many millions and millions would it be worth? And what a great heist movie it would make! 

Floor by Jackson Pollack

When it rained out at the beach last week, we visited Jackson Pollack’s house/studio. The grandmaster of abstract action painting was worth $700 when he died in a car crash in 1956. And all I could think of as I walked across the splattered wooden ‘canvas’ was: OMG! Shouldn’t I be tiptoeing? What if it was stolen?  Cut up? Sold? How many millions and millions would it be worth? And what a great heist movie it would make! 

There’s something ominous about the silence surrounding the condition of Ardie Fuqua. Fuqua is the ‘unknown’ comedian who was pulled out of the wreckage of that horrific car crash with Tracy Morgan, two weeks ago. In yet another obscene act of emotional rubbernecking, TMZ saw fit to post footage of Ardie as he lay unconscious on the roadside. (Footage I refuse to look at.)  
For anyone who has ever seen Ardie at the Comedy Cellar, the thought of him, lying still and unconscious for even a moment, is inconceivable. That’s how alive and quick, how electric, he is on stage. HIs job as MC is a hellish one—to loosen up the crowd and make them laugh. This, often before they’ve been served a single drink. The miracle, small as it might seem to all but those who follow him as performers, is that he succeeds. He stalks and skitters across this tiny, claustrophobic space—eyeballing the audience, a grin as big as Eddie Murphy—always in a skinny suit jacket and tight jeans, stylish and full of life. So full of life.  
Two years ago, Fuqua lost his 19-year-old son in a freak basketball accident. The ball hit his son in the chest between heart beats. He died instantly.  The death of a child often turns a parent ancient overnight. Ancient, broken. But at 42-years-old, Ardie appears to be the youngest in the line-up—younger even the twenty and thirty somethings who headline his Thursday night gigs. I can only imagine his grin—the joy— he must have felt on that night he opened for Tracy Morgan in Delaware. All of which, again, makes the thought of him lying still and unconscious only hours later, too devastating to consider.  
What makes Fuqua as a comic so unique, at least to me, is not so much the laughter he inspires but the affection. He is genuinely loved by audiences and comics alike.  So please, consider making a contribution to Ardie Fuqua and his family through the Comedy Cellar’s Go Fund here:
http://www.gofundme.com/aha310  

And think about joining Louis CK, Judd Apatow, and his own 19-year-old daughter and asking TMZ to remove the footage. 
More news here: https://www.facebook.com/brendacullerton

There’s something ominous about the silence surrounding the condition of Ardie Fuqua. Fuqua is the ‘unknown’ comedian who was pulled out of the wreckage of that horrific car crash with Tracy Morgan, two weeks ago. In yet another obscene act of emotional rubbernecking, TMZ saw fit to post footage of Ardie as he lay unconscious on the roadside. (Footage I refuse to look at.)  

For anyone who has ever seen Ardie at the Comedy Cellar, the thought of him, lying still and unconscious for even a moment, is inconceivable. That’s how alive and quick, how electric, he is on stage. HIs job as MC is a hellish one—to loosen up the crowd and make them laugh. This, often before they’ve been served a single drink. The miracle, small as it might seem to all but those who follow him as performers, is that he succeeds. He stalks and skitters across this tiny, claustrophobic space—eyeballing the audience, a grin as big as Eddie Murphy—always in a skinny suit jacket and tight jeans, stylish and full of life. So full of life.  

Two years ago, Fuqua lost his 19-year-old son in a freak basketball accident. The ball hit his son in the chest between heart beats. He died instantly.  The death of a child often turns a parent ancient overnight. Ancient, broken. But at 42-years-old, Ardie appears to be the youngest in the line-up—younger even the twenty and thirty somethings who headline his Thursday night gigs. I can only imagine his grin—the joy— he must have felt on that night he opened for Tracy Morgan in Delaware. All of which, again, makes the thought of him lying still and unconscious only hours later, too devastating to consider.  

What makes Fuqua as a comic so unique, at least to me, is not so much the laughter he inspires but the affection. He is genuinely loved by audiences and comics alike.  So please, consider making a contribution to Ardie Fuqua and his family through the Comedy Cellar’s Go Fund here:

http://www.gofundme.com/aha310  

And think about joining Louis CK, Judd Apatow, and his own 19-year-old daughter and asking TMZ to remove the footage. 

More news here: https://www.facebook.com/brendacullerton

New Google slogan!

 
"Triggers are not only relevant to sexual misconduct, but also anything that may cause trauma. Be aware of racism, classism, sexism, heteroism, cissexism, ableism, and other issues of privilege and oppression…” (an excerpt from a draft circulated by students at Oberlin College, requesting professors to place trigger warnings in their syllabuses.) 

I was so enraged, reading this front page article in The Times on Sunday, I was shaking. Who do these kids think they are? Do they THINK, at all? The tyranny of it. The ignorance. I mean, what the fuck is the point of education if it isn’t to trigger, to provoke, to incite…. Emotions, argument, debate, uncertainty? 
Life is not like driving with air bags. It hurts. And there’s very little to cushion the blows. Life is about intolerance and pain and very ugly truths. Of course, it is also about joy and courage and love and change. And this is what a great education prepares you for. Life. So stop reducing it to endless ‘ism’s’ and get out there and LIVE it! 

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/05/18/us/warning-the-literary-canon-could-make-students-squirm.html

Mesmerized by the elevator footage. And ashamed of myself. Thinking what a hideous life it must be, to live in the public eye. Particularly these days when we have all become that EYE; when the whole concept of privacy seems to have mutated/morphed into this strange new ‘culture’ of sharing. Is there anything left we don’t share? Photos, playlists, apps, sexual orientations, office space, secrets, opinions/feelings about food, teachers, movies, books, lovers.  I mean, what incredible irony. We who so loathe the idea/the reality of government surveillance; of security cameras tracking our every move.  I hated myself, every time I clicked replay at TMZ, yesterday. I did. I felt like an emotional rubbernecker. But sometimes, i fear that this is what the culture of sharing has created—a world of emotional rubberneckers.